


My Heart Would Feel to Be a Crime (unless it trembled with the strings)

by kiwiana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Incest, M/M, Miscarriage, Multi, Polyamory, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-30
Updated: 2009-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/kiwiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam goes to Stanford, he leaves behind the brother he's sleeping with, and the lifestyle he never wanted. But your past has a way of catching up with you, and when Sam’s father goes missing, Dean turns back up in his life needing his help. Sam will go only if he can bring his girlfriend, but someone else has plans for Jess – a demon that almost kills her before Sam and Dean intervene...</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart Would Feel to Be a Crime (unless it trembled with the strings)

**Author's Note:**

> AU from the Pilot, but spoilers for events through the end of Season One. Title is from a poem by Edgar Allen Poe. Written for Polyamory Big Bang 2009.
> 
> None of the Supernatural characters belong to me, or I'd be a lot richer than I am.
> 
> Originally published on LiveJournal 2009-10-30.

The wisps could be fog, or smoke; it’s hard to tell in the predawn light. It’s the smell of scorched flesh that gives it away. 

An outsider would be appalled if they were to stumble upon this scene, but to the three people standing in front of the pyre, this is second nature. They stand hand in hand, their features flickering eerily as the flames take hold. The tallest figure chokes back sobs, while tears run unashamedly down the face of the other two.

They stay and watch the fire burn out before picking up their belongings and turning away. They lean into one another—broken, yet drawing comfort from the others’ presence—until they reach the ’67 Chevy Impala they’re so accustomed to.

They exchange glances, then turn back to the pile of ash as each of them whispers their own private, final farewell.

* * *

_ December 1998 _

Three days before Christmas, it starts to snow.

For Sam, it’s the last day of school before the holiday break, and he’s bored. His English teacher, Mr Spivey, is taking some kind of vindictive pleasure in giving his class a test for the last period of the year. Sam finished fifteen minutes ago, but Mr Spivey won’t let him read. He can sit there in silence until the rest of the class is finished, thank you very much, and he better not disturb the other students, either.

Sam stares mutinously at his desk. Most teachers praise his intelligence and high grades; they smile and say things like  _especially considering all the moving around you do... your parents must be so proud_ , to which Sam just smiles and tries not to think about all the times John’s yelled at him for doing homework instead of weapons training. But in Mr Spivey’s class— _God, he’s got a stupid name_ , Sam thinks defiantly—he feels as though he’s being punished for being ahead of the other kids. Which is stupid, really, because if school isn’t going to stretch his mind, what’s the point? 

He knows the answer to that, though. The longer he stays in school, the longer it will be until he has to go hunting, to join the family business. John’s rage at having his wife taken from him spills into every facet of their lives; it blinds him to the fact that one son, at least, doesn’t want to follow his path. Dean doesn’t really get Sam’s disinterest in hunting, or his dedication to school; he’s Dad’s good little soldier. Still, he jumps to Sam’s defence when he and Dad start screaming at each other, and he makes excuses for Sam to stay at the motel, with himself as chaperone, if need be.

Sam shifts in his seat, avoiding Mr Spivey’s glare, and looks out the window. The snow’s really coming down thick now, and he can see a figure standing at the school gates slowly turning white as the flakes fall down upon them. The person looks ridiculous just standing there, and Sam chokes back a laugh; getting a detention when there’s only seven minutes left before the holidays would be nothing short of painful.

The snow-covered figure raises a hand and waves, and Sam would recognise that gesture anywhere.

“Dean!”

Too late, he realises he said it out loud. A couple of kids turn in their seats, and Mr Spivey turns a terrifying shade of purple as he gets up from behind his desk.

_Oh, shit_.

* * *

Dean stands outside the gates and wonders what the hell’s taking Sammy so long. Here he is standing outside the school like some kind of pervert, snow sliding down his back and into his boots, practically freezing his balls off, and his little brother chooses today to muck around.

He claps his hands together, trying to keep the circulation going, and mutters, “Come the fuck on, Sammy.” A kid glances up at him. Dean wonders if maybe he shouldn’t be swearing, but then the kid says, “Are you Winchester’s brother?”

Dean nods. “Yeah dude, where is he?”

The kid grins. “Spivey gave him detention. On the last day of school! Man, it sucks to be him.”

He goes to leave, but Dean stops him. “Where’s detention, kid?”

“Room 313. Good luck getting him away from Spivey, though...”

Dean just nods absently, already heading towards the school building. He needs to bust Sam out and get him back to the motel before the snow gets too bad. There’s no way Dad will make it back for Christmas now—if he was ever planning to in the first place.

He trudges up to the third floor, finds the detention room, and peers through the window. There’s an ugly little man behind the teacher’s desk—that’d be Spivey, Dean guesses—and in the middle of the front row is Sam, the only other person in the room, angrily scribbling on the sheet of paper in front of him.

Dean smirks, and has half a mind to leave him there, but a sulky Sam isn’t something he wants to deal with, especially if they end up getting snowed into the motel room. So he knocks sharply on the door, and strides in without waiting for permission.

The teacher looks up at him, annoyed, as Sam tries to hide his elation at seeing his older brother. Dean clears his throat.

“I’m here to take Sam home,” he says in his best impersonation of John’s commanding tone.

Spivey raises an eyebrow. “And you are...?”

“Dean Winchester,” he responds, staring the other man down. “I’m Sam’s brother, and his guardian while our father’s out of town. The snow’s getting heavier by the second, and I’m pretty sure neither of you wants to be stuck here with the other through the holidays. Am I right?” He smiles then, hoping to appeal to this guy’s sensible side.

“Well... yes, Mr Winchester, that’s a valid point. However, Sam did earn a detention, and I don’t think—”

Dean cuts him off. “He’ll do the detention the first day back. I’ll make sure of it,” he declares, knowing full well they won’t be here after the New Year. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind...”

“Yes, yes,” Spivey waves his hand vaguely, already packing up his papers as fast as he can. “I’ll see  _you_  after the holidays, Samuel.”

Sam nods. “Yes, Sir.”

He doesn’t say anything until they’re walk out the school gates, snow already well past their ankles, but then he laughs loudly. “Dude, I can’t believe you sprung me from detention. You are officially the coolest brother  _ever_.”

Dean smirks and ruffles his little brother’s hair. “I’ve  _always_  been the coolest brother ever, and you know it. Come on. We’ll swing by the supermarket on the way home and grab some supplies in case we’re snowed in for a few days.”

* * *

The supermarket’s packed, of course, but they manage to grab a lot of food with the fifty dollars John gave Dean before he left. The two of them traipse back to the motel loaded down with shopping bags, both thankful that they only have to walk a few hundred feet. They dump the bags in the kitchenette and flop down on their respective beds. Dean called the king as soon as John left, but he’s the oldest, so it’s totally fair.

Sam’s bed is closer to the fridge, so Dean socks him with a pillow and tells him to grab him a beer. Sam huffs and sighs, but gets up and wanders over to the kitchenette as Dean grabs the remote and starts channel surfing. He settles on  _Friday the Thirteenth—_ he doesn’t know which part it is, but doesn’t really care. Everyone knows the original was the best, anyway. 

Sam comes back with two beers, and settles beside his brother on the double bed. Dean thinks about saying something about the drink, but to hell with it; Sammy’s old enough, and Dean’s there to keep an eye on him, anyway. He takes a long pull on the beer bottle, and tries not to laugh out loud as Sam blatantly copies him.

Three beers later, they’ve been informed that they’re officially snowed in. Sam is resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Jason’s a dick,” he slurs. “I could totally kick his ass, man.”

Dean laughs louder than he normally would; he’s a little beyond sober himself. “You fuckin’ could, too, Sammy,” he declares. “You’d, like, stab him or something. He’d be fuckin’ scared of you...‘specially if you keep growin’ the way you have been lately.”

Sam looks at him and grins. “I’m gonna be taller than you, Dean!” 

Dean smacks him in the arm. “Not fuckin’ likely, kid,” he laughs. 

Sam just grins mischievously at him. “Reckon I will be, Dean, in a year or two. D’ya want another beer?”

Dean frowns. The kid’s already shitfaced; on the other hand, it’s been a long time since he’s seen Sam this relaxed and happy. “Sure thing, squirt,” he says. “But I’m not gonna hold your pretty hair back when you lose it all in the morning.”

Sam just smiles. “I won’t throw up, Dean. I’m too much like you.”

True to his word, all Sam needs in the morning is closed curtains and some aspirin. Despite himself, Dean’s impressed; he’d thrown up for five straight hours the first time he’d gotten drunk.

* * *

They don’t drink again until Christmas Eve. The snow’s still falling haphazardly outside, and they can’t leave the room. Dean manages to whip up some eggnog, and he hands a glass to his little brother with a smirk.

“Merry Christmas. Knock ‘em back, Sammy!” he laughs as he downs half of his own glass in one go. Sam takes a sip, and grimaces.

“Jesus, Dean, that’s strong!”

“That’s the point, kid. Can’t handle it?” Dean raises an eyebrow—a clear challenge.

Sam glares at him defiantly and drains the glass. Dean’s impressed, and quickly finishes his own.

“Go Sammy!” he crows, pouring them both a refill.

* * *

Sam can’t work out how the two of them managed to drink a bottle and a half of Jim Beam between them—because holy shit, that’s a lot of eggnog. He picks up his glass and stares at it, convinced that he’ll find the meaning of life in the dregs.

“Dean?” he says carefully. There’s a low chuckle from beside him.

“What’s up, Sammy?”

“I have a feeling this might make me sick.”

Dean laughs loudly at that. “Dude, you don’t want to be throwing this shit up. Trust me.”

Sam just looks at him, disgust etched on his features. “Shut up, Dean.”

“Ah, think about it, Sam! Regurgitated egg— hey! Get off me!” he yells as Sam pounces, tackling him to the floor. They’re both pretty drunk, and they tumble to the ground in a tangled heap, Sam on top. Dean laughs.

“Christ, you’re bulking up. Get the fuck off me.”

“No.” Sam’s voice is dead serious now, and Dean blinks at him.

“Sammy?” he whispers, just before Sam leans down and kisses him, soft and slow. Dean pulls away and laughs awkwardly.

“Dunno how drunk you are, Sammy, but I’m not a girl,” he half-smiles, and tries to ease his little brother off him. Sam won’t move.

“I know you’re not a girl, Dean. It’s you I want to kiss.”

“Sam...” Dean pleads. He’s not entirely sure where he’s going with the argument, but Sam clamps a hand over his mouth.

“No, Dean. Shut up and listen. I’ve wanted this since... hell, since forever. You’re all I’ve got. And it’s not because I’m drunk, or whatever; that just makes me brave enough to say it. I want you, Dean. Let’s face it—you’re the only person I can rely on. I wanna— I wanna kiss you, and touch you, and...” he breaks off and looks pleadingly at his older brother. “It’s not just me, right? You love me, you look after me. You’re obviously turned on, and—”

“The hell do you mean, ‘obviously turned on’?” Dean cuts in. He’s confused as hell—not just by what Sam’s saying, but by his own convoluted reaction. He doesn’t know whether to be mad that Sam’s putting him in this position, or guilty that he thinks this is okay—obviously, Dean’s failed somewhere along the line. Sam looks at him, curiosity stamped on his face.

“Well, Dean... you’re hard,” he says as though he’s stating the obvious. Dean frowns and looks down.

_Oh, hell no_.

“See?” Sam says, quietly triumphant. “You can deny it all you like, but the truth is, you want me as much as I want you. It’s not like we’re ever gonna be able to find anyone else, so why shouldn’t we?”

“Because we’re brothers, Sam,” Dean says in a strangled voice. “Because you’re  _fifteen years old_. There are a hundred reasons saying we shouldn’t, and none saying we should.”

“We want to,” Sam responds quietly. “That’s a reason why we should.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that, and the two of them sit in silence for a minute.

“Please, Dean.”

Dean curses to himself. The truth is, he’s never been able to deny Sammy anything, especially when he puts on that voice. He sighs, and closes his eyes. “Okay, Sammy.”

He doesn’t move until he feels Sam’s lips on his own, hesitant yet eager. He’s inexperienced, but seems to be trying to fix that as quickly as possible. Despite himself, Dean finds himself kissing back feverishly. It’s a nice feeling, being wanted. Dean’s not ready, yet, to think too hard about Sam’s accusation that he wants this too. He just loses himself in the moment.

Sam tugs on Dean’s lower lip, and Dean moans despite himself. Sam’s response is enthusiastic as he kisses harder, deeper. Dean winds his fingers in Sam’s long hair—the hair John’s always trying to make him cut, but at this moment Dean loves it long – and pulls him closer, the two of them still kissing frantically on the floor.

Dean barely notices when Sam slips a hand under his shirt, only really paying attention when the fabric gets in the way of their kissing. He tugs Sam’s shirt off in response, and lets his hands explore the soft skin, loving the way the gooseflesh raises as he skims his fingertips along Sam’s torso. Sam’s head is thrown back and his skin is flushed, and Dean grins.

Sensing the scrutiny, Sam sits up and looks at Dean. His pupils are hazy with lust, and Dean imagines he looks the same way. Sam grins and leans over. His tongue traces hesitantly down Dean’s chest, swirling around the nipple and eliciting a gasp. Sam grins, and draws a trail of kisses down Dean’s body until he reaches his jeans.

“Can I— ” he gasps, and Dean nods frantically.

“Yeah, Sammy, yeah. Whatever you want.”

Sam unzips his brother’s fly reverently and eases his jeans over his thighs; maddeningly slow, according to Dean, who kicks them off. He watches Sam carefully for any sign of  _Oh my God, what am I doing_ , but it never comes. Instead, he stares at Dean’s cock, hard and leaking, as though it’s the Holy Grail. Dean’s not sure what the big deal is—as far as he’s concerned, penises are pretty ugly things—but all that changes when Sam stands up and quickly whips off his sweatpants. 

The sight of Sam like this—throbbing,  _needing_ —is absolutely breathtaking. He gets up on his knees unsteadily and shuffles over to Sam, who just watches, waiting to see what Dean will do next. For an answer, Dean nudges his younger brother so that he tumbles back on the couch, and sits down beside him.

“I’m not trying to justify the carpet burn tomorrow,” he says by way of explanation. Sam nods, and moves his hand into Dean’s lap. Dean pushes his hips up sharply, which Sam obviously takes for consent. He grips his brother’s cock and strokes it experimentally. Dean groans, loudly, and thrusts up into the motion. 

Sam grins and keeps going, while Dean growls and moans and begs and generally sounds like a porn star. He has the presence of mind, however, to reach across to Sam and reciprocate. Sam hisses, but far from getting distracted, it only seems to spur him on.

It doesn’t take long before Sam’s breaths are shortening, and he barely has time to stutter out a “Dean— I’m gonna—” before coming all over his stomach and Dean’s hand. The sight, the feel, the  _smell_ —and he’s never liked the smell of semen before—has Dean tumbling over the edge just after his brother.

They clean up in silence, and Sam has this look on his face, like he’s terrified that Dean’s mad at him. So Dean pulls back the covers of his bed and says, “Get in,” and Sam grins, realising that everything turned out better than he could have hoped.

Dean wraps himself around his little brother, and he’s halfway to sleep when he hears, “Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy?” he mumbles.

“I’ve got you forever, right?”

Dean kisses the top of his head, his eyes wet. “Yeah, Sammy. Forever,” he promises, and the two of them fall asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

For two and a half years, they keep their secret from John—something unheard of for the Winchester boys. For the brother who loves completely and follows blindly, two and a half years is a heartbeat. For the brother who can switch off emotion and craves normalcy, two and a half years is a lifetime.

Then the letter arrives. For one brother, it’s the beginning of a whole new chapter, a chance to have everything he ever wanted. For the other, it brings his whole world crashing around his ears.

* * *

 

_ June 2001 _

The day Dean comes home with the letter, the three of them are training in Arizona. It’s one of the hottest summers on record. They’re staying in a rundown motel on the outskirts of town, and Dean had used the lack of decent water as an excuse to head into town and grab some bottled water, clear the PO Box, and generally get out of the blistering heat for a while. He would have loved to take Sam with him, but Dad was adamant; Sam was getting slack, and he needed all the training he could get.

To most people, the crisp white envelope with ‘Stanford University’ emblazoned in the corner would seem innocuous, exciting, even. To Dean, however, it’s a ticking time bomb, the end of the small piece of happiness, however fucked up it might be, he’d found in his brother’s arms. 

He might be overreacting. The letter might say “no, we don’t want you”—in fact, that’s likely, isn’t it? Sam’s smart and all, but they move so often his formal education’s been disjointed, to say the least. He grabs the cup of coffee he picked up at the gas station, and uses the heat to steam open the letter. Then he takes a deep breath, and begins to read.

_Dear Samuel,_

_Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I offer you admission to the Stanford University Class of 2001._

_Your thoughtful application and remarkable accomplishments convinced us that you have the intellectual energy, imagination and talent to flourish at Stanford..._

Dean can’t read any more. He sits outside the post office for a while, resting his head on the steering wheel and trying to figure out what to do. His first instinct—burn the fucking thing and pretend it never existed—is tempting, but if he’s honest with himself, he knows he can’t do that to Sammy.

It’s not like they’ve just given him a place, either. They’ve offered him a full ride: tuition, accommodation, even textbooks. Even Dean, with his limited knowledge of higher education, knows how big a deal that is. He knows how proud Sam is, how determined he is to do everything on his own; for him to even apply for a scholarship shows just how badly he wants to go.

When it comes down to it, there’s no choice. Dean’s whole life has revolved around what Sammy wants, and he’s not about to break the habit now. There’s nothing else for it but to reseal the letter, drive back to the motel, and try to swallow his sense of betrayal.

* * *

The showdown between Sam and John is epic. They stand toe to toe, fists clenched, hurling abuse at each other. Sam stands taller than John now, and he makes the most of it, towering over his father. Dean hovers between them, eyes swinging from one to the other as though he’s watching some kind of angry tennis match, hoping it doesn’t disintegrate into a brawl. 

When John tells his youngest son not to come back, Sam picks up his duffel and marches out the door without a backwards glance. John collapses into the nearest chair and reaches for the bottle of Jack Daniels.

“I’m going after him,” Dean announces. He expects his father to object, but John just nods wearily, drinking straight for the bottle.

“Be back by tomorrow night, Dean.” It’s not a request. Dean thinks about arguing for the first time in his life, but he figures Dad’s dealt with enough tonight. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he grabs his jacket and the keys to the Impala.

Sam’s marching along the road when Dean pulls up beside him. He’s not crying, but his jaw’s clenched tight and his shoulders are hunched, like he’s trying to pull in on himself. He flinches as the car gets close to him, but his face visibly relaxes when he realises that it’s Dean at the wheel.

“Get in,” Dean says, and Sam just looks at him.

“Why?”

“C’mon, dude, seriously. We can find a spot, sleep in here tonight, and if you want, I’ll take you to the bus station in the morning.”

There, he’s done it:  _if you want_. He’s given Sam an out if he needs one. But deep down, he knows Sam’s leaving. He knows he’s got twelve hours left, tops.

“Sammy, please,” he says quietly, and Sam nods and gets in.

“I’m leaving in the morning, Dean,” he reiterates, and Dean just nods.

“Yeah, Sammy, I got that.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so bitter, and he regrets it a moment later when Sam looks hurt. “Aw, c’mon Sam, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Sam says, and there’s nothing Dean can really say because yes, he did. “But Dean, this isn’t about you—I just can’t live like this anymore! I want to go to college, Dean, I want to be—”

“You want to be what, Sam?” Dean challenges. Sam sighs.

“Normal. I want to be normal.”

“Yeah well, newsflash—you’re fucking your brother. That ain’t normal.”

There’s silence from the seat beside him, and Dean gets it a second too late.

“So it is about me.” There’s no tone or inflection to his voice; he may as well be asking the time.

“No, Dean, it’s about  _me_. And I still... I still wanna see you, okay?” Sam drops his voice. “I love you.”

Dean stares at him for so long Sam has to remind him he’s driving. Finally, he whispers, “Yeah, Sammy. I love you too.”

They pull over for the night, and tuck themselves into the back of the Impala. There’s nowhere enough room for two of them, and there’s limbs everywhere, but they kiss and touch and taste and say goodbye in their own wordless way. Afterwards, they fall asleep in each other’s arms, and neither of them cares about the cramped conditions.

Dean drops Sam off at the bus stop early. There’s no huge show of affection, but Sam kisses his brother longer than he normally would. He promises to call at least three times a week, and Dean threatens to haul his ass out of Palo Alto if he doesn’t.

Sam gets a window seat, and he waves goodbye as Dean leans on the hood of the Impala. Dean tries to smile at him, but he can’t quite shake the feeling of abandonment despite all Sam’s assurances to the contrary.

He sighs, and gets back in the car. There’s training to do, hunts to go on, people to save—and one less person to help them.

* * *

It takes nineteen months for Sam to cut all contact with his older brother, which is about eighteen months and three weeks longer than Dean had expected.

It’s a girl, of all things. Jess, he says, and there’s a softness in his voice when he says her name that Dean hasn’t heard in years. Logically, he knows this girl could be good for Sammy. She’s his chance at the quarter-acre home, white picket fence, two-point-four kids and a happily ever after.

He  _knows_  that, and he’s been expecting this for a while. But it still hurts to hear it.

“Please, Dean. I just... I need this chance to be normal. I love her, but I can’t give her everything if I’m still caught up on you as well. Please... I’m sorry.”

Dean just swallows, nodding until he remembers that he’s on the phone. “Sure, Sammy,” he mutters. “Have a nice life.”

It’s over two years before they speak again.

* * *

  
_ November 2005 _

Jess knows who he is the second she turns on the light, even before Sam introduces her. At first glance, the two look nothing alike: one tall, fair and gangly, studious and serious, the other shorter, dark and stocky, flirtatious and dismissive. Yet the two of them move around each other in a way that suggests years of intimate knowledge. They have the same mannerisms, they speak the same, and they even look at her the same, which would be disturbing if it wasn’t so funny.

This, then, is the elusive Dean Winchester. Sam spoke of him occasionally, even when he kept the details of the rest of his family under lock and key. In fact, when they first met, Jess had been under the impression that Dean was an ex-boyfriend. When she’d found out he was Sam’s brother, she’d been both embarrassed and a little ashamed, even though Sam had brushed it off. The more she learned about his family, though, the more she wondered if there was some truth to it. It wouldn’t have surprised her, or even shocked her that much; Sam certainly didn’t come across as someone who could be coerced into anything. So, logically, if something did happen, Sam had been a willing party to it. But how do you bring up  _By the way, have you ever slept with your brother?_  in everyday conversation? So, she never had. She just wondered, secretly, and assumed she’d never find out.

Now with Dean in front of her, hitting on her so blatantly, she assumes she was mistaken. Then, she sees the way he looks at Sam—possessive, protective—and she wonders if the flirting is a cover. For whose benefit, though? Hers, Sam’s, or Dean’s own?

They go outside to talk, and Jess sits on the edge of the bed. She knows Sam hates how intuitive she is; it’s because she’s a psych major, she guesses, that she can know so much about his past and the effect it’s had on him as an adult. She wonders whether Dean will stick around, and if he does, whether that will be a good thing or a bad thing for Sam.

She’s so lost in her own thoughts, she doesn’t notice the presence in the room until it’s too late.

* * *

Dean agrees to get him back in time for the interview if he’ll just  _get his ass inside and pack_ , but Sam has one more condition. Dean just looks at him blankly.

“You want Jess to come?”

“She comes or I stay, Dean.”

“But... why?” Dean’s genuinely perplexed. It’s not because she’s a girl—contrary to popular belief, he happens to think chicks can handle a lot more than most guys give them credit for—but he doesn’t understand why Sam wants to bring his girlfriend on a hunting trip.

“Look, just... call it a feeling, or whatever you want, but I don’t think she’s safe here alone, Dean,” Sam tries to explain without sounding like a freak. Dean regards him for a moment, then nods.

“Fine, go get your girl. But she better not slow us down.”

Sam grins at him, relieved. “She won’t,” he promises as he runs back up the stairs. Dean follows behind him, shaking his head.

When Sam enters the bedroom, the first thing he registers is the shadowy figure at the end of the bed. The second thing is Jess, bleeding from the stomach, pressed up against the wall with her feet dangling above the floor. He freezes for just half a second, but it’s enough for the figure to whip around and face him.

Sam hears a shout from behind him. Dean has a gun pointed at the stranger. Rock salt or bullet, Sam doesn’t care, but it’s a damn demon who exits the body before Dean can get a clear shot. The brothers watch the smoke rise up and away, then Sam sprints over to Jess, who has collapsed on the floor. She’s gasping, and holding her hands over her stomach.

Dean bends over to check the body the demon had been inhabiting, but it’s pretty clear the guy’s been dead for a while. He grabs Sam’s duffel out of the closet where he knew it would be, and stuffs it with the closest clothes he can find, while Sam talks to Jess in an undertone, tying a sheet around her midriff to help stem the bleeding.

“Hospital?” Dean asks. It’s an unwritten rule that they don’t go to the ER unless it’s absolutely necessary, but this is Sam’s girl. He’s got good reason to be worried.

Sam shakes his head. “We need to get away from here, fast. I’ll patch her up in the back seat as we go.”

Jess is staring at him, eyes wide. “You a paramedic too, Sam?” She laughs slightly, but underneath, she’s really shocked.

Sam just nods. “Years of practice. Come on.” He scoops her up in his arms and carries her out the door. Dean brings the bag he just packed.

* * *

Six miles out of Palo Alto, Jess is all stitched up and crying quietly onto Sam’s shoulder. Dean, glancing in the rear-view mirror, can’t help but feel sorry for her.

“It’s okay, doll,” he says awkwardly. “Sammy’s awesome at stitches. Bet you won’t even have a scar.”

“It’s not that, Dean,” Sam says quietly.

“Then what?”

Sam looks at him pointedly in the mirror, then at Jess’ stomach. Dean finally gets it.

“Oh, hell. You’re pregnant?”

“Was,” Jess replies hoarsely.

Dean averts his gaze. He’s not really sure how to handle this one.

“Dean,” Sam says hesitantly. “D’you think that was—”

“The thing that killed Mom? Yeah, I do,” he looked at the two of them and sighed.  _So much for normal, Sammy_. “I think you’d better tell your girl what we really do.”

* * *

Dean drives on through the night. Sam didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but he obviously dozes off at some point, because he jerks awake at midday from dreams filled with ash to the smell of bagels wafting through the car. Jess stirs beside him, and he watches her carefully as she wakes up, frowning, before remembering where they are. He can pinpoint the exact moment that her memories come flooding back; she bites her lip and turns to stare out the window, unseeing.

Sam sighs. It’s his fault she’s in this mess, he knows that; at the same time, he’s impressed by how well she took the  _By the way, my family hunts monsters for a living_  speech. At first he’d thought she was in shock, the way she just accepted what he told her, but she’d nodded as though he was merely confirming her expectations. Dean had watched curiously in the mirror, an unreadable expression on his face. Somewhere between pain and pride, Sam thought at the time, but in hindsight, he was probably wrong.

Jess turns, aware of his invisible scrutiny, and smiles wanly. “Breakfast?” she asks.

“More like lunch.” Dean smiles at her. “It’s after twelve.”

It’s clear to Sam that Dean has absolutely no idea how to act, but he’s doing a damn good job nonetheless. He frowns as he realises what Dean just said.

“Twelve? Dude, you drove all night?”

Dean glances back at him. “Well, yeah, Sammy,” he says, as though speaking to a two year old. “You two could have been in danger. I wanted to get as far away as possible.”

“Dean,” Jess says, gentle reproach in her voice. “You must be exhausted. What were you thinking?”

Dean shrugs. “I was thinking... let you two sleep while you can. I’ll find somewhere to stop in a few hours.”

“Dean Winchester,” Jess says firmly, “you will pull in at the next motel.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Got your hands full there, don’t you, Sammy?”

Sam chuckles; it’s the first sign since they left Stanford that he’s capable of even feigning happiness. “Best to do what she says, Dean. She’s downright scary when you don’t listen to her.”

* * *

The motel they pull into doesn’t have any rooms with two queens left, but Dean’s damned if he’s leaving the two of them on their own. Jess is jumpy, flinching at any sudden movement or too-close sounds; Sam has drawn in on himself and has eyes only for his girl. He gets a room with a king and a single, and silently curses being over six feet tall.

It honestly never occurs to him to share the king, which is why he’s caught completely unawares when Jess suggests it.

“It makes sense, Dean. You’re not going to fit in that bed, and besides...” she stops, takes a breath, and tries again. “Sam needs someone to comfort him, and I— I’m not there yet.”

She meets Dean’s eyes for the first time, and sees his flicker. Message received and understood; this isn’t sexual. She nods, more to herself than to either of the boys, and crawls into bed in just her t-shirt and underwear.

Sam wraps his arms around her, and she can feel Dean’s hands brushing her waist as he holds on to Sam. It’s oddly comforting; she feels protected with the two of them. Safe.

The three of them fall asleep like that. No one wakes up screaming. In fact, no one wakes up at all for a full sixteen hours.

* * *

_ January 2006 _

Jess lines up her shot and sighs. If you’d asked her three months ago where she’d be after New Years, her answer could have been any number of things: skiing in Colorado had been a possibility, as had staying with her parents in Boise. There’s any number of places she might have been that aren’t a deserted field in the middle of Nebraska, using empty beer cans as target practice for a whole range of guns that she apparently needs to be able to handle.

Dean places his hands on her shoulder, shifting her position ever so slightly, and she tries to relax. Dean’s a hardass— _Gets it from Dad_ , Sam had muttered the first time Dean started lecturing on weaponry—but he knows what he’s doing, and she knows he’s only looking out for her. He’s a good teacher, too, patient but firm. Jess has the feeling he’s been through all this before, probably with Sam.

The thing is, it’s her birthday today, and neither of them have said anything; she’s 22 and... doing what? Drive another hundred miles, scour local papers in search of a hunt? It’s not like she’s in the habit of feeling sorry for herself—so far she’s faced two ghosts, a wendigo and a  _demon_ , of all things, without freaking out, not to mention the thing that tried to get her—but there are times, usually when she’s dirty and tired, that she misses her old life. She misses bubble baths and evening walks and morning sex. She misses having a home that isn’t a car, and waking up in the same bed every day. She misses spending her birthday with people who love her.

But, see, that’s not really fair, she thinks, stopping to push the hair out of her eyes. Sam loves her, and Dean... well, she think Dean loves her more for the fact that she makes Sam happy than as any reflection upon her as a person, but it’s enough. It didn’t take her long to work out that Dean’s entire sphere of focus is his family; that family now includes her. It might not be what they planned, or even—for Sam at least—what they wanted, but in spite of the foreignness of it, and the occasional bouts of homesickness, she is happy here with the two of them.

The two of them are happy with each other, too. She wonders if they think they’re being subtle; touches that linger a little too long, a whole myriad of unspoken thoughts in their eyes. They’ve slept in the same bed since that first evening. “It’s cheaper,” Sam had said quietly, and nobody had dissented. Jess wishes she could tell them,  _it’s okay_. She loves Sam more than anything, and she’s not giving him up, but she’s no prude. She might be an only child, but she knows how to… well, okay,  _share_  is a little crass.  _Negotiate_  sounds better; they can work something out. They’d have to be all in, though, because the last thing they need with this lifestyle is two of them fighting over the third.

She feels Dean’s hands, sliding from her shoulders to her waist as he adjusts her position slightly, and bites her lip. It wouldn’t exactly be a hardship, having both the Winchester brothers. The more she thinks about it, the more it seems to be a win-win—or maybe win-win-win is more accurate.

Jess nails the shot, and hugs Dean on impulse. She probably imagines the way his hands trail her waist just a little too long before pulling away.

* * *

When Sam had learned Jess’ birthdate about a month into their relationship, he thought a higher power was trying to mess with his head, tell him that the past is inescapable. His girlfriend and his brother-slash-lover having the same birthday? Yeah, that’s got to be some kind of sick joke. Except that it wasn’t. 

The first birthday Jess had with Sam, he was utterly miserable, and she couldn’t understand why. It took four shots of tequila before he’d muttered, “Today’s Dean’s birthday, too.”

She’d just looked at him like she was trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. “Then call him, Sam,” she’d said, but Sam hadn’t. Instead he’d kissed her, hard and fierce, and tried not to see anyone but the beautiful blonde he held in his arms. They’d had the best damn sex of their relationship, and Sam had hardly thought of Dean at all.

Now, he’s determined to give them both a birthday they’ll enjoy. Jess has lost a baby, had her whole life turned upside down, and is living on the road hunting monsters—for him. Dean has been surprisingly accepting of the newest addition to the Impala, and Sam is grateful for that.

When he woke up this morning to an empty room with a note on the table reading  _Dean’s taking me out for target practice, back later, love you_ , he had decided he was going to go all out and give them both a birthday treat—an actual home-cooked meal. It’s cheesy, and Dean will probably give him shit for it, but he’s doing it anyway. Hell, he even went out and bought candles.

Their timing’s perfect. Dean and Jess walk in the door about twenty minutes before dinner’s ready, the smell of lasagna hitting them the moment they enter. They’re covered in dirt and grime, but Jess looks proud of herself and Dean seems pleased, so Sam’s guessing weapons trainings went well. Jess heads straight for the shower, and Dean inhales appreciatively.

“What’s brought this on, Martha Stewart?” He grins at his little brother, trying to open the oven. Sam swats his hand away.

“It’s your birthday, Dean. Jess’ too. I wanted to do something.”

Dean looks away, and Sam realises with a jolt that this is probably the first acknowledgement Dean’s had of a birthday since they stopped speaking. The last time they celebrated Dean’s birthday together was three years ago; they’d had drinks in one of the classier bars in Palo Alto, and Sam had sucked Dean off in the driver’s seat of the Impala. The thought makes his cock stir, which in turn causes him to flush guiltily, and he hides it by embracing his brother.

“Happy Birthday, jerk. Twenty-seven? You’re getting old,” he says, trying to cover up the awkward moment. Dean chuckles into Sam’s neck, low and warm, and Sam’s body _really_  shouldn’t be reacting the way it is. 

Jess chooses that moment to walk back into the room wearing one of Sam’s t-shirts and a towel wrapped around her head. Sam disentangles himself from his brother, uncomfortable with being so intimate with Dean while Jess is around. Her smile never wavers, however, and he sweeps her up in his arms.

“Happy Birthday, beautiful,” he murmurs, and she giggles.

“Put me down, Sam. The food smells amazing. If you burn it, I’ll kick your ass, and Dean’ll help me,” she smirks over at Dean, who smiles back.

“Damn straight I will, sweetheart,” he laughs. 

It’s funny, Jess hates being called ‘sweetheart’ or ‘sugar’ or anything like it by guys—she finds it demeaning—but she doesn’t seem to mind it from Dean. She tosses a grin over her shoulder as she reaches up to grab the plates out of the cupboard, but Sam nudges her away.

“This is your birthday treat, you two. Now sit your asses down at that table,” he says in his best stern voice. Jess and Dean pull a face at each other, and sit down obediently as Sam dishes out the lasagna and brings it to them along with a bottle of wine, which Dean eyes in suspicion but drinks anyway.

They eat in relative quiet, the silence only broken by the occasional appreciative comment about Sam’s cooking skills. When everyone’s finished, Jess jumps up to help with the dishes, ignoring Sam’s protests.

“You’ve given me a wonderful birthday, Sam,” she says, her eyes serious despite the playful tone. “Just... shut up and let me help, okay?” She smiles at him, then turns to Dean. “You too,” she orders, and Dean jumps out of his seat.

“Yes, ma’am,” he teases, and Jess just laughs.

They chatter about nothing in particular as they clean up, Dean taking advantage of his dish-drying status to spank them both repeatedly with his dish towel. None of them have been this relaxed and happy since Stanford, and Sam watches the others with a slight smile on his face.

The idea of the three of them being ‘together’ together has been in Sam’s head on and off ever since they left Palo Alto. His feelings for Dean have never gone away, and the more time they spend together, the harder it is to stop himself from shoving his brother up against the nearest wall and fucking him senseless. Not that it negates his feelings for Jess. He loves them both: one more than he should, and the other more than he can fathom. So yeah, he’s toyed with the idea of an all-in relationship more than once. The thing is, how do you bring up  _I want to sleep with my brother, and I want you to as well_  in everyday conversation?

As it turns out, it doesn’t matter. It just kind of... happens.

* * *

When Jess kisses Dean, she means it to be a chaste  _Happy Birthday and thanks for looking out for me_  kind of thing. But it lasts a little too long, and then a little longer, and before she knows it, Dean’s arms are wrapped around her waist and they’re kissing passionately, and oh God, it feels good.

It takes a while for the fog in her brain to clear enough to think  _oh fuck, Sam_ , but as soon as it does, she jerks away. Her horror is reflected in Dean’s eyes as they both turn to look at Sam, who’s just standing there watching them, his eyes dark.

“Sam, I—”

“Sammy, we’re not—”

They both try to explain themselves, but Sam doesn’t seem to be listening. He takes two strides over to Jess, pulls her hair back and kisses her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. He’s achingly hard and pressing into her back, and Jess gasps.

“Bedroom, now,” he growls, glancing over Jess’ shoulder at Dean, who is watching them, hunger evident in his expression. “All of us.”

* * *

Jess stumbles backwards into the bedroom as she kisses Sam frantically, trusting Dean to follow. When Sam’s lips move to her neck, and down her shoulder, she glances over at the door through half-lidded eyes to see Dean watching them, biting his lip and palming himself through his jeans. She grins at him, and starts undoing Sam’s shirt.

“You going to stand there and stare, or are you going to help me with this?” She asks, and Dean’s beside her in a flash. He takes over Sam’s shirt as Jess drops to her knees, trying to unzip both their flies at once.

She hears a low groan and looks up; both boys are shirtless. Dean has his fingers wound in Sam’s hair and they’re kissing passionately, making up for lost time. She watches for a while, smiling at the way they each seem to know exactly what to do to please the other, until Sam pushes against her hand and she remembers what she’s down there for.

She manages to free both their cocks, and gives Dean a push that sends him sprawling backwards onto the bed. She pulls off his jeans and boxers, leaving him flushed and exposed on the bed. She jumps as Sam slides his hands down her arms, reaching around to fondle her breasts as Dean watches, sliding his hand slowly up and down his hard dick.

“Do you like him watching you, baby?” Sam whispers in Jess’ ear as his hands trail down her stomach, and she shivers in anticipation as one hand comes back to tease her nipple while the other slides lower, playing with her clit and making her gasp.

Dean’s cock is hard, leaking; Jess reluctantly pulls away from Sam to settle on the bed. She wraps her lips around the head of Dean’s cock and begins to suck as Dean gasps and winds his hands in her hair. Jess knows she gives good head, but she’s not prepared for Dean’s porn star commentary.

“Oh fuck yeah baby, holy shit that’s fucking good, hell yeah, don’t stop...”

It’s funny and ridiculously hot at the same time, and when Sam slides two fingers into her without any warning, she can’t help the moan that escapes around the obstruction in her mouth. Dean thrusts up sharply, hitting the back of her throat, and Jess senses he’s close to coming. She pulls away quickly, and Dean swears at her.

Sam lets her go, and she grabs the duffle bag, rummaging around until she finds the lube she knew would be there. Turning back to the bed, she sees the two boys kissing, Dean’s hand wrapped around Sam’s cock, stroking it lazily. She grins, and settles between Dean’s legs. Opening the lube and slicking her fingers up, she slides two fingers into Dean. He moans, deep and dirty, into Sam’s mouth, and Jess sees Sam’s dick twitch at that.

She uses more lube and more fingers to open Dean up before asking him if he wants to be fucked. Dean’s desperate, strung-out moan is answer enough, and she looks pointedly at Sam. Sam grins back before disentangling himself from his brother and scooting up the bed so his back is leaning against the wall, legs stretched out before him.

“Come ride me, Dean,” he says, and Dean hastens to obey; sitting on Sam’s lap, back pressed up against Sam’s chest, as Sam slides his cock into him. Dean tries to raise himself back up, but Sam’s arms are around his waist, holding him firm.

“Now you, baby,” Sam tells Jess, who all of a sudden gets it. She straddles Dean, facing him, and excruciatingly slowly lowers herself onto him.

It feels fucking amazing, and Jess can’t help but start to move. It takes a minute, but they find their rhythm and start fucking in earnest, Sam controlling their speed. Jess doesn’t think she’s ever been so turned on in her life, and when Sam reaches around to her ass, finger circling her hole—that’s it, she’s fucking  _gone_. She comes, spectacularly, but Sam doesn’t even break his stride. Dean kisses her, hot and messy. 

“So fucking sexy, sweetheart,” he whispers against her lips. His voice sends shivers down Jess’ spine. “Don’t think I’m gonna last much longer.”

Sam obviously hears that, because he picks up the pace. Dean dips his head, takes one of Jess’ nipples in his mouth, nibbling lightly. She moans, arches, and feels Dean tighten underneath her.

Dean comes first, hot jets of come deep inside her. She cries out at the sensation, coming a second time, sinking her teeth into Dean’s shoulder as she does so. She feels Sam thrust once, twice, again before he groans, eyelashes fluttering closed as he slumps back against the wall.

It takes more effort than Jess has to extricate herself, but she somehow manages it, pulling Dean off with her. She seriously considers not cleaning up, but figures they’ll all regret it in the morning. She grabs a towel and throws it at Dean, who groans but accepts it.

Jess falls asleep between Sam and Dean, all three of them completely fucked out and blissfully happy.

* * *

Sam tries to start a conversation in the morning about the logistics of this relationship, but Dean and Jess give him almost identical looks of amused exasperation, so he laughs and gives up.

“He tried the same conversation with me,” Dean tells Jess as he plays with her hair, while Sam tries to simultaneously hit Dean with, and hide underneath, a pillow. “All about how we could  _explain ourselves in public_  and  _ensure Dad never suspected_ —he was fifteen, Jess, seriously. It was ridiculous.”

Jess laughs, and thinks about how lucky she is. Maybe she can’t compete with their past, but she’d rather be a part of their future anyway.

Later, when Dean’s in the shower, Sam kisses her and asks, “When did you figure it out?”

“You and Dean?” she says, and Sam blushes, looking away as she nods. Jess grasps his chin and brings him back to face her.

“Over time,” she answers honestly. “Little things, that meant nothing on their own, but together... but Sam, it never  _bothered_  me—at least, not any more than any ex of yours who you’d felt that way about would have. You have to know that.”

He smiles at her. “I know,” he whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says, wrapping her arms around him. Then, as Dean steps out of the shower, towel conspicuously absent, her smile turns devious. 

“I love you both,” she growls, pulling Dean on top of them.

* * *

  
_ May 2006 _

John loves and hates Jessica, in equal parts.

She’s beautiful, sassy, and she doesn’t flinch when he throws holy water in her face. She stands her ground when he blasts his sons for dragging her into a dangerous world. 

“Is this because I’m a girl, or not good enough for your sons?” she demands, and John is suddenly thrown back to another woman he knew whose eyes flashed like fire.

_He’d caught her pouring salt around the windows when she was eight months pregnant with Dean, and he’d laughed._

_“Don’t know what you think that’ll do,” he’d said, and she’d glared at him, salt still in hand._

_“I’m protecting my son, John,” she’d said with so much force that John just nodded. What else could he do?_

This, of course, is why he can’t help but hate her, more than he cares to admit. She reminds him so much of Mary, with her tenacity and fierce protective streak, that he can’t understand why she survived the fire and not his wife.

It’s not until he drives away, later, that he wonders why she said  _sons_.

* * *

  
_July 2006_  
  
“Sam, does your dad seem... off to you?” Jess says carefully. They’re holed up in a cabin after rescuing John from the demons, and John sent the two of them out while he talked to Dean. He doesn’t seem right to her, though. He’s too... complacent.

Sam straightens up from where he was checking the salt lines and frowns at her. “He’s been held captive by demons, Jess. He’s probably a little fucked up right now. Hell, I would be.”

Jess bites her lower lip, and can’t help the warm flush that spreads through her as Sam’s eyes darken at the sight. “I just... I can’t help thinking something isn’t quite right about all this. Splitting up like this, it’s like something out of a bad horror film—you know, when you’re screaming at the people on screen to stop being so stupid? John’s not stupid, Sam. I think we need to get back in there with Dean.”

Sam looks like he’s going to argue, but they both freeze as they hear a gun being cocked, and Dean say quietly, “You’re not my dad.”

Sam’s jaw tightens. “Okay. I’ll go, you wait here.”

Jess groans in exasperation. “Sam, what did I just say about splitting up?”

Sam whirls around, grabbing her arms and crouching down until he’s at eye level. “Jess, listen to me. If we’re all in there and Dad’s possessed, we’re all screwed. But if I can go in there, and distract him, you can wait for your chance, okay? You’ve got salt, and maybe you can even get your hands on the Colt. But Jess—” his grip tightens, and Jess doesn’t dare break eye contact, “you have to wait until he’s completely distracted. Or until me or Dean are in danger. And then you... you do whatever you have to do. Can you do that?”

He’s looking at her so earnestly that Jess just nods. She doesn’t ask the obvious— _if I shoot the demon, what about John?_  She thinks Sam’s probably already thought about that, and that scares her a little. Sam’s single-minded determination to get this thing... well, she hates to think what he would have been like if she’d actually been killed. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s still in danger that makes him so gung-ho? 

Sam kisses her, soft and slow. “I love you, Jess,” he whispers against her lips. “We both do.”

Her eyes snap open at that, and she glares at him. “Don’t you dare say goodbye to me, Sam Winchester,” she says furiously. “Not for yourself or Dean. I’ll tell you both I love you when we’re out of here,  _together_.”

Sam nods. “Remember, Jess—not until you have to, okay?” he says before walking out of the room, across the hallway and into the room with John and Dean.

She stands by the door listening, ready to move as soon as she has a chance. It takes all her willpower not to cry out when the demon throws Sam up against the wall, but she keeps a hand over her own mouth and waits it out.

As she’s waiting, she prays to a God she stopped believing in a long time ago. Nothing coherent, but there’s a lot of  _please_  and  _just let them be okay_. It might be completely useless, but it helps anyway, and Jess suddenly understands what faith is all about. 

When she hears Sam scream, and Dean’s desperate gasps for air, she knows she can’t wait much longer. She silently creeps forward, flattening herself against the doorframe, and peers in.

Dean is on the ground, bleeding from the chest, while Sam and John, no, the demon, both look on; the demon in amusement, Sam in utter horror. And the Colt is just  _sitting there_  on the table. All she has to do is make it another two feet.

She sees Sam’s eyes flicker toward her, and she nods at the Colt. She inches forward as Sam tries to keep one eye on her and the other on Dean, terrified that the cabin floor will creak or something equally stupid and give them away right at the end. She looks at Sam, wild-eyed, and Sam obviously understands or at least is thinking the same thing, because he lets his eyes snap back to his brother.

“Dean!” he screams, and it’s loud enough to drown out any sound Jess might make as she crosses the gap and picks up the gun. The first hint the demon has of her presence is when he hears it being cocked.

They all freeze, and the demon slowly turns to look at Jess. She’s got the Colt pointed straight at John’s heart, and her mouth is set in a grim line. His eyes search hers, looking for the bluff that isn’t there. Inexplicably, he chuckles.

“Pretty little Jessica Moore,” he says quietly. “You’re the one that got away, sweetheart. You were supposed to be out of the picture, drive Sam down the path of revenge his father took. You have no idea how mad I was that you survived... then again, it all worked out, didn’t it? You ended up with not one, but  _two_  Winchester boys at your beck and call.”

He looks down at himself, then back up at her as he laughs. “Oh, Daddy didn’t know that, did he? Didn’t know you’re fucking  _both_  his sons, while he has no one. What do you say, Jess? Would you have gone for the trifecta?”

“You shut the fuck up,” Jess snarls, and feels Sam and Dean both stare at her in shock. She’s not usually one for swearing. “You tried to  _kill me_. You killed their mother, John’s wife. And for what? So you could get your demon rocks off?  _What did I ever do to you?_ ” She sounds upset, but she’s completely in control. Her hand is steady on the gun, and she’ll do whatever she has to. But first, she wants some answers.

“What did you  _do_?” the demon mocks. “You got in my way. Sam was going to marry you, you know that? He was looking at rings and everything. I had a plan for Sam, and you got in my way. So I took steps to... remove the obstacle. Turns out, you weren’t as easy to get rid of as you seemed. Got rid of that brat you were carrying though, didn’t I? And look what you got instead—a life on the road with two brothers who have loved each other longer and deeper then either of them could ever love you. Is it enough, do you think?”

“Shut up,” Jess says evenly. He’s trying to get under her skin, but she won’t let him. “You want to stand there and say you wanted me dead because I got in the way of some fucking  _plan_? You don’t know shit. Both of them would die for me, just like I would for them. And you know what?” She places her other hand on the handle of the Colt, keeping her steady. “John would die for them, too.”

The sound of the gunshot is incredibly loud. 

John’s body sparks as the bullet hits him in the chest, but only for a second. Then he crumples to the floor—no sign of the demon, but no sign of life either.

Dean moans and crawls over to his father from where he’d been face down on the ground. “Dad...” he whispers, and Jess has to physically turn away from his grief; it hurts too much to watch. Sam takes a step forward and Jess holds out her arm— _give him a moment_ , the gesture says, and Sam nods as though she said it out loud. 

Dean sits beside his father sobbing, and finally Jess can’t take it any more. She steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. Dean’s reaction is immediate; he flinches away from her as though burned.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snaps and Jess nods. She should have expected that, and it doesn’t hurt. Sam, on the other hand, leaps to her defence.

“Dean, don’t take it out on her, okay? She did what she had to do. Hell, if Dad had been awake in there he’d have been begging for us to shoot, Dean, you know that.”

Dean nods, but his jaw is tight and his eyes are red; he looks like a skittish horse, ready to bolt. “I’m just going to... I need a bit of time by myself, yeah? I won’t be long,” and he takes off out of the house before either of them can react.

Sam sighs, and moves to the window. “He’ll be back,” he says, his voice confident.

Jess isn’t so sure. “How do you know?”

Sam turns and smiles sadly at her, his eyes damp. “He left the Impala,” he says simply.

* * *

They salt and burn John Winchester at sunset.

It’s Jess who somehow procures the American flag. Neither of the boys are sure where she got it, but when Sam questions her, she simply says, “He served his country. Not just the Marines; he saved more American lives than any soldier in a war.”

Sam nods, and Dean makes some crack about burning a flag. He meets Jess’ eyes for the first time, and she offers a small smile. She knows he’ll never forgive her, not completely, but she hopes that in time he’ll come to understand why she had to do it.

It’s Jess who wraps the flag around John’s body, and it’s Sam who arranges him on the pyre with wet eyes, but it’s Dean, predictably, who gets the last word.

“John Winchester, you were a stubborn son of a bitch and a damned pain in my ass at times, but you were my father. You taught me everything I know. And I’m sorry—” his voice stutters. Sam wraps an arm around his waist, and Jess steps forward to slip her hand in his. This time, he doesn’t pull away from them as he continues, “I’m sorry it had to be like this, but you were the one who always said hunting this thing down came before everything. And you’re... you’re with Mom now, and we both know that’s really what you’ve been searching for all along—”

He stops abruptly, taking three steps back as he chokes back a sob. “I can’t do this part, Sammy,” he whispers, holding out a box of matches, and Sam takes them without a word. Jess, sensing this is something he needs to do, moves back to stand beside Dean. He rests his arm along hers, not needing any more than contact, and she’s happy to provide that. When Sam throws the matches on the pyre, he steps back to Dean’s other side.

The flames are beautiful against the fading light.

* * *

Later, they drive down the road, no one prepared to be the first to ask, What now? In the short term, they’ll find a motel and hole up for the night, losing themselves in their grief. Tomorrow there’ll be another hunt, another monster to fight, something else to focus on.   
  
Life goes on, for all of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. This was my first foray into this thing they call Big Bang, and I’ve got to say, I’m hooked. 
> 
> In the original draft of this story, the beginning was written as two people burying the third, ambiguously enough so you didn’t know who died. At that point I hadn’t decided who would die, and was seriously considering not telling the reader either – letting them draw their own conclusions.
> 
> But the more I wrote, the more attached I got to the characters and the ‘verse. There’s a lot of potential for this ‘verse down the line – if John never makes his deal for Dean, how would that change things? So chances are, next time I’m stuck for something to write, I’ll come back to this world and continue the story.


End file.
